


Colours are Fading.

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Drama, Heroes to Villains, The Quidditch Pitch: Going Under, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-17
Updated: 2006-08-17
Packaged: 2018-10-26 18:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Someone is trapped in Azkaban, Someone is slowly going insane... someone doesn't know it.





	Colours are Fading.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Azkaban was always cold **; when the temperature was through the roof** , it was still cold… no, not cold, freezing. If you weren’t so consumed by your **worst** fears, you’d be driven mad by the **teeth-chattering.** ****

When people picture their worst fears,  **they think of** dark colours: blacks **and** blues **,** **(never yellow or pink)**. I guess whenever someone has a bad memory there’s never a fluoro pony running around in the background.

I used to recall as many bad memories as I could, just to prove to myself that if it ever came to it, I could easily last in Azkaban.

Entering those doors, I realised that my worst fears really weren’t my worst fears, no, no, no, there is always something worse, isn’t there; a memory you suppressed for who knows how long, and now it comes back to bite you on the arse.

Technically speaking, this isn’t even a memory of mine, nope, bet you didn’t know that either. Dementors? They pretty much work for anything bad. So if you have a fear, you’re scared it **will** happen, it’ll play in your head over and over, or if you had an amazingly good memory, they can twist that around too, so no matter who you are, and how much of a good fucking upbringing you’ve had… you’re screwed.

Azkaban isn’t a place for the weak. Oh no, the weak die within a few days, the weakest? Within a few hours. Some of them go crazy, and you laugh… _that could never happen to me, I’m not weak. I am strong,_ but I guess talking to yourself in a cell isn’t exactly sane.

When I think of **insanity,** I think of people who talk to themselves, does that make me crazy? When I think of someone crazy, I think of those **loonies** walking the street in nothing but shorts and a sign saying, “The world will end in 24 hours, give me money for beer.” I’m sure you’ve seen **those** people, and you’ve crossed the road to avoid them… You wouldn’t want to catch whatever the hell they have!

When you go insane in Azkaban, you don’t just go “talk to yourself” crazy. You’re about **fifty** metres past that. Yeah, you still see them talk to themselves; you hear the screams at night or day… I can’t tell with all of these dark colours in my head. You can hear them breaking their arms, cutting their legs **:** the blood oozing out of somewhere you don’t even want to know of. Once I heard this weird suction sound… turns out someone pulled out their eyes. Why? So they wouldn’t see what was in front of them. Yeah, it sucks because it was actually all in his head.

Poor sucker, died the next day.

I’ve lasted in this place a while; I’ve lost count of how long, until that one fear hit me like a bludger on a Q **uidditch** pitch.

Boy, I wasn’t expecting that…

I don’t think my fear actually happened. There are days when I’m 100% sure it didn’t, and other’s where I have no idea. I wish in my heart that it didn’t.

Azkaban doesn’t have a roof. If I had a broom I could fly out of this dump. If I could stop thinking, I could Apparate off this island, but I guess that’s the magic of Azkaban, once you’re in here, you can’t leave, no matter how much you want to.

My fear has colour. Amazing, huh? There are yellow flowers all over a meadow. I don’t know how my mind created colour in this place, but it did. Flowers are everywhere, sounds like a great memory you think? It’s not. **The colours always drain away; I try to hold them in, but the yellow trickles out of my mind as if it was liquid. I** don’t even know if they are yellow flowers anymore. **I don’t remember what yellow looks like.** ****

Dementors enjoy kissing us inmates. I haven’t had the kiss of death yet, but you know when someone does. It’s worse than a scream. It’s worse than anything I’ve heard of before. I’d kill myself if I could just to stop that sound replaying in my mind. I can hear it in there, and I wish it’d fade away like the colours, but it doesn’t… bad things like that never do in places like this.

My worst fear is now in blacks and greys, not the nice ones from black and white photos, it’s the sinister ones, the ones that make you terrified, the ones that make you want to keep looking behind your back, just in case someone’s there.

There’s red in my fear too. It’s not good… It’s blood. And whenever I see it, I know what it means. I try so hard to turn away, so I don’t have to see it, but I’m compelled to walk forward. Work of the Dementors, I guess.

I’ve seen Death Eaters come past my cell. They were my friends. I want to sneer at them for not saving me. But I can’t. I can’t do anything; I’m too caught up in my mind to figure out how to get my face to portray anger. I can’t remember how to tell my body to move. So I just watch them pass, and think of what will happen to them. I’m always stronger than them. **They have all gone insane, not me.** ****

I’m frightened of the things in my mind. And my worst fear is always there.

Walking forward, towards the blood. I don’t want to look, but I have to. 

And there she is. Such a perfect figure, but brutally murdered. Her eyes are looking in different directions, her legs are pointed at odd angles, and a horrified look is on her face, always, forever. The blood is everywhere, the cuts and bruises are everywhere. I never know who did it or how it happened. But I know that now she’ll never know how much she meant to me.

 I vomit at the look of Hermione’s torn body. But I’m strong; I will make it past this. I will get out of Azkaban. I am not weak like the others. I am a **Malf** oy.


End file.
